Page 7 of Let Me In

EMMY

I don’t go inside right away.

The driveway is quiet again. The gravel settling. The air still holds the shape of his car, even though it’s long gone. The sun’s dropped behind the tree line, casting the yard in that soft, late-day hush where everything feels heavier and more honest.

Evening air clings cool against my neck as I stand in the fading light, the paper still in my hand.

It’s not large. Just a scrap. A corner torn from something else. But his handwriting is steady. Bold. Just a number. No name. But it doesn’t need one.

He gave it to me like it meant nothing.

Like it meant everything.

My breath caught, just for a second. Because it wasn’t habit. It comes from care, from intention. It stirred something in me I wasn’t ready for—a fragile, dangerous kind of hope. And the ache that followed, quiet and familiar, reminded me why I don’t usually let myself hope at all.

He didn’t ask for mine. Didn’t hold out his phone and wait. Didn’t tell me to call.

He just handed it to me.

And somehow, that makes it feel more real. Like the choice is mine. Like I’m not just allowed to reach out, but trusted to.

But I won’t. I already know that.

Not because I don’t want to.

Because I don’t want to take up more space than I’m allowed. Don’t want to tip the balance by needing too much. I’ve learned what happens when I ask for things, how quickly discomfort turns into disdain. I don’t want to ruin the quiet thing that passed between us by needing anything more.

He probably did it just to be nice. A safety net. A contingency.

Call me if you’re in trouble.

Not: Call me if you just want to hear my voice.

But God, how I want that to be the reason. Just to hear him—low and steady, grounding me with a single word. The thought makes my throat ache. Because I don't know what it would be like to be missed like that. To be the reason someone listens for the phone.

I press the paper between my fingers before slipping it into the pocket of my jacket, quiet and careful, like it means more than I can say.

Warm against my side. Quiet. Like a secret I’m not ready to share.

The door to the house creaks as I step inside.

He’s waiting.

Dad steps into the doorway of the garage, rag in one hand, eyes already hard.

“So?”

I don’t answer right away. Just pull the folded bills from my other pocket. I count them quietly. Neatly.

“Two thousand.”

He scoffs. “More than it was worth.”

I don’t say anything.

He does.

“You owe me four hundred.”

Of course. He waited until I had something to take.

“For what?”

His eyes narrow. “For letting you live here. For putting up with you. You think all this is free?”

It’s not a question.

I don’t argue. I don’t ask why now. I don’t say that the sale was mine. That the bike was mine . That the burn was mine, too.

I just pull the bills and count out four hundred.

It’s mechanical, practiced, like flipping a switch I wish I didn’t know existed.

The one that keeps everything quiet when it shouldn’t be.

Each bill feels heavier than it should, like it’s pulling pieces of me loose.

But I don’t stop, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, and defiance doesn’t earn you mercy here. Only more cruel words.

I place them on the table between us.

He doesn’t say thank you.

Just walks away.

I stand there for a second longer. Then I go to my room.

The door closes behind me. I lock it.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and only then do I reach into my jacket and pull the scrap of paper free.

I smooth it out. Thumb over the number. Read it once. Twice.

I think about what it meant. What it could mean.

How his fingers brushed mine when he handed it over. The way they had, too, when I gave back the mug. Not deliberate. Not pointed. But I felt it.

Warm. Certain. The kind of touch that stays longer than expected—because it felt safe. Because it didn’t ask anything from me, but it stayed anyway.

I don’t let myself dwell on it, not too much.

So I don’t call.

But I don’t throw it away. Don’t even consider it.

I slip it into the notebook beside my bed.

The one with all the beginnings.

And maybe—just maybe—this one's the start of something else. Something steadier. Something I could grow into, if I let myself.

Just in case. For when I’m brave enough to believe Cal might be waiting, too.